Your Biggest Fan
by rhymeswithmonth
Summary: Kurt Hummel is just a broke drama student trying to make it in NYC. His big break comes when he's asked to cater the engagement party for Broadway Diva Rachel Berry and her new fiancee, NFL rookie Blaine Anderson. The gig lands Kurt with wealth, connections, and a torrid secret affair with New York's closeted golden-boy.
1. Chapter 1

This story is already posted, and is one chapter ahead on AO3 under the same title and author's name.

This fic is based off of the Drew/Emmett plot from the awesome show Queer as Folk. I see a lot of similarities between Peter Paige in the show and Chris Colfer, though Chris is definitly cuter. They both have the quirky smile, pixie ears, button nose and blue eyes. Their characters are also fairly similar, with the stay-true-to-yourself attitude, eccentric fashion sense and desire to be loved, so I'm able to pretty easily stay true to Emmett's role. Blaine and Drew however, couldn't be more different so I'm going to have to change a lot of his motivations.

Anyway, Blaine in this is a rookie cornerback for the NY Jets. I will say straight up that I know nothing about football, and my research consisted of googling 'short football positions' and going with the first website's suggestions. Apparently cornerbacks need to be fast and have good reflexes and can often be a bit smaller than the average player so. That's Blaine's position.

* * *

The house manages to somehow summarize everything that Kurt hates and what he loves about the mega-rich of New York City.

There's the pretense - in bucket loads. For example: the fifteen-foot marble pillars lining the arched entryway, the gaudy fountain sunk into the centre of the tiled hall in the form of a larger-than life Muse cradling a lyre and crowned in a halo of roses. Chubby little cherubs peek out of the flowing robes, jets of water shooting from their cupped hands. The muse -Aoidē if Kurt's hazy memories of his second year Mythology course were accurate- is slightly unconventional in her features. While the Muses are generally portrayed as figures of ideal Grecian feminin beauty, with light, curling hair pined back and soft, oval faces, this toga-clad woman had loose, straight hair and straight across bangs which would have been entirely unfashionable in Ancient Greece.

Of course Rachel Berry would commission a fountain carved with her face. The young broadway star has become infamous in the short span of her career as a level one diva, and utterly full of herself. But it's all thanks to this inflated ego, Kurt reminds himself as he tries to keep his wingtips from clicking so very loudly against the floor, that he is even here in the first place.

Reaching the end of the cavernous foyer, Kurt hesitates, glancing back at the rear end of the fountain, and beyond it the magnificently wrought elevator door which had carried him to be delivered unto this sanctum of sumptuousness. The gleaming cage had clanged shut behind him, but all he has to do is press the single button in the wall and it would return to restore him to the real world, thirty-nine stories below, where people like him went about their days and went home to their tiny, leaky apartments.

But Kurt hasn't gotten to where he is - poised to graduate from Nyada in the spring, interning for one of the most prestigious fashion magazines in the world, and now running his very own event-planning business with growing success - by being phased by a little showiness.

Beyond the foyer is a sprawling living space, the far wall made up entirely of full-length windows overlooking downtown, Stratton Island just visible in the distance. Kurt takes in the enormous fireplace in the middle of the room, the magnificent mural decorating the largest stretch of wall, the obviously imported rugs, vases and leather furniture. The last (and only) time he's been here the room had been packed with a hundred plus of the city's elite personalities, the buzz of conversation drowning out the pleasant trickle of the more tasteful water feature that flowed sedately down the wall behind the fully stocked bar counter. Now the room appears to be totally vacant, save for the centerpiece of the whole area, a beautiful golden birdcage that housed dozens of flittering birds.

It's ridiculously ostentatious, the cage positioned in front of the windows so that the sun, low in the sky, catches on the intertwining bars, sending a million tiny shards of light scattered over the walls, floor, and arched ceiling. But it also appeals to the hopeless romantic that resides not-so-deep in Kurt's heart. He paces closer, watching as an actual nightingale hops from one perch to another, trilling sweetly. He smiles, daring to slip a single finger into the cage, whistling softly to encourage the bird to come to him.

"They're Rachel's babies." The voice echoes from the short flight of steps that spills into the kitchen area. Kurt jumps back guiltily, only to stumble when his messenger bag tangles between his legs. He mentally curses himself for not making time to sew the strap shorter like he'd been meaning to since Finn gave it to him for Christmas. Bless the boy for trying but only his stepbrother would buy an unadjustable bag and forget that the general population was a full half-foot shorter than he.

"I-I'm sorry." Kurt manages to get out while regaining his composure, "I didn't think that anyone was in - the doorman who let me in thought that Miss Berry had left."

"And so she did." Blaine Anderson smiles, hands in his pocket as he takes the last three stairs in one bound. "But lucky for you, I'm taking a day in. So. Will you settle for second best?"

If Kurt didn't know better, if this was an exchange between strangers in a bar, he would have thought that he was being hit on. As if there was a world where a man like Blaine Anderson, gorgeous, charming, the NFLs favourite rookie, and the cornerback who'd seemingly come out of nowhere to lead the New York Jets to the Super Bowl.

Or so his father had told him when Kurt had called him last week to gush ecstatically about the gig he'd landed catering for a party who's guest list included only every single Broadway bigwig as well as a handful of producers and agents from the east coast. The only times Kurt paid any attention to professional spots was to collect talking points for debate with Tina over homoerotic undertones in mainstream media, and when his dad got excited about something and wanted to talk about it. Apparently Blaine Anderson was exciting enough to spend a good chunk of time enthusing over, especially so because he is one of the rare, good-ol' Ohio success stories.

Rich, famous, well-liked by fans, colleagues and media alike, men like Blaine Anderson were out of bounds. Kurt had gone to school with guys like that, the jocks, the golden boys. Sure Anderson had rocked the boat a little, unashamedly admitting on national television to having performed in his school's choir as a teenager, and that yes, he does have joint dance lessons with Rachel when he's in town.

"Um." Kurt says, not sure what he's supposed to say that that. "Yeah. I'm just here for my check and my supplies and I'll get out of your hair."

Anderson doesn't help dispel the surreal feeling when he responds by insisting that Kurt stay for a drink. He offers beer at first, of course, padding over to the industrial sized fridge, his bare feet whispering over the blood red tiles of the floor. He's dressed casually in flatteringly clingy track -pants and a Jets T-shirt that pulls tightly across his shoulders when he leans to rifle through the food for their drinks.

Kurt has never been much of a beer person, though he suffers through a bottle now and then during "bonding" with his dad and Finn. He doesn't even like the brand that Blaine hands him, but for the sake of politeness and also because he's a coward he takes the beverage without comment and sips it, trying to keep from grimacing.

"Here's your check." Blaine says, holding a folded piece of paper out between two fingers. "We had a service come in this morning to clean everything, so all of your stuff is washed and ready to go." He cocks his head toward the island counter where Kurt equipment has been polished to a shine and stacked neatly, waiting for him.

"Oh thank god." He can't help from moaning in relief, "That frees up my evening. You do not know the meaning of 'time consuming' until you've scraped Cherries Jubilee off of thirteen pans."

Blaine hums and leans his elbows back against the counter, allowing his shirt to rise up and allow a thin strip of tanned hip to peek into existence. The track pants hang low on his hips, no hint of underwear to be seen. Kurt's eyes trace the thin line of a vein over the jut of pelvis, across olive skin that has obviously been waxed smooth. He realizes that he's staring and rips his gaze away.

"Surely you have people to do that for you." Blaine is saying, an amused brow raised as if he'd noticed Kurt's moment of weakness. "I mean, it's your name on the business cards, and your hors d'oeuvres on the plates, it seems wrong that you should have to take care of the cleaning up as well."

"Oh gosh no." Kurt giggles nervously and fidgets with the paper slip in his hands. "I do basically everything. Mike and Sam, the waiters last night, are my brother's friends who only agreed to help me out once they heard that it was your party. I had a partner who helped me out with the food, but he backed out on me when he got a promotion at his other job."

"So it's just you." Blaine muses, taking a swig from his own beverage. "Just one multi-talented man behind the hottest event planning business in NYC. I'm impressed Mr Hummel."

"Hardly the hottest." Kurt is quick to amend, fighting the unattractive blush he can feel rising in his face. "I've had some good luck. But I'm just a broke college student really, and in this city, I'll need more than that to even stay on the radar."

"Oh, I'd say you definitely are the hottest." Blaine smirks over his bottle, hazel eyes taking an unmistakable trip down Kurt's body. "I'm sure you'll continue to...get lucky...for quite a few years yet."

"O-oh?" Kurt stutters, and his face is completely aflame in a way that he _knows_ makes him look like he's having a particularly ugly allergic reaction. He shuffles over to the right, lifting his plus-sized mixing bowl off the counter and pretending to examine the gleaming surface. Really he just wants to place the island between himself and the other man who continues to casually eye him like a piece of meat at a butcher. "I uh, hope so sir."

Blaine's smile widens and he shifts along so that they're on the same side of the kitchen. "Oh please don't call me that, we can't be that far apart in age, I'd imagine that I'm no mare than a year or two older than you."

"Younger." Kurt blurts, drawing from the bits he remembers from his father's summary of Blaine Anderson: a biography. "Er, I'm a year older than you s- Mr Anderson."

"Oh?" Just when Kurt had thought that grin couldn't get any bigger, he's proved wrong. "Well maybe_ I_ should be the one calling _you_ sir. Would you like that?"

A twitch in Kurt's nether-regions seems to indicate that he would indeed like that quite a lot. He's immensely grateful that a late season cold-snap had forced him to wear his knee-length pea-coat today. "I, um, that's not necessary Mr Anderson. My name works just fine."

"Your name? That being Kurt correct? I can call you Kurt?" Kurt nods uneasily, fingers stroking the rim of the bowl, no doubt leaving fingerprints all over the clean surface that he'll have to wash off later. "Excellent then you must call me Blaine."

Shit. Well played. Kurt scrambled for a way to steer this exchange into less...tense waters. "My dad is a huge fan." He says, voice high even for him. "He's normally more of a college league guy but you've managed to shift his attention."

"I'm flattered." Blaine places his beer down next to the sink. "What about you, what's your team?"

"I, er, am not a football fan in general. I've just never really understood the appeal of three hours of full grown men in tight pants jumping all over each other. No offense."

"Not at all. Although I personally don't see what's_ not_ to like about that description of the sport." He actually honest to god winks, and Kurt has to remind himself not to gape like an idiot at the way his eyelashes fan over his cheek.

"I guess-" Kurt bites his lip, thoughts racing. Changing the topic had only brought them back to this, whatever this is, and he needed desperately to lighten the mood. "It's odd you know? For a sport with such a...an emphasis on masculinity it has an awful lot of hugging and ass-slapping. The way you play your Sunday afternoon games doesn't look all that different from how I play mine on Saturday nights. What's the deal with that?"

"Just friendly encouragement." Blaine replies evenly, clasping his hands behind his back with a loud clap. "It can get...intimidating to say the least, to have to spend every day getting pushed around by a pack of guys who weigh two-hundred plus pounds and could be mistaken for trees when they go for walks through the park. And with all the focus on winning and being champions, it's easy to lose sight of what is most important, the team. Those guys respond best to the physical, so this," and suddenly he's right beside Kurt, and his hand is planted firmly against his thigh, "is to re-establish the comrade."

"A-ah!" Kurt yelps, and then tries to cover it up with a noise of understanding. "T-that makes sense. I can s-see how it would get a little..." He gasps as the hand on his leg slides up and around to cup his ass. "Tense."

"Mm-hmm very." Blaine steps further into Kurt's space, walking him backward until his back hits the wall. Thankfully he removes his hand from where it had been gently kneading Kurt's buttock in order to plant both fists on either side of his head. "Especially for guys like me. Young. Short. Don't weigh as much as a motorcycle. I have a lot to make up for. But I'm stronger than most people would think. Here, feel my bicep."

Kurt feels like his eyes must be bugging right out of his head. He's certain that this has to be a joke. If he touches Blaine now any number of things could happen. It's true, Blaine is an unusually petit athlete, but Kurt has no doubt that he could still lay him out with little effort. "Go on." Blaine says, eyes intense and not even a foot away from Kurt's. "Feel my bicep Kurt."

Wearily, Kurt complies, trying futilely to keep from trembling when he lays his fingers lightly against the firm curve of Blaine's flexed arm. "It's hard." He squeaks, "Very hard, very nice arm. Yup, nice and strong definitely."

"Thanks." Blaine grins, then snatches Kurt's hand in his and jerks it down between their bodies and presses it firmly to his groin, pining it against the undeniable length of his erection through his track pants. "How about this?"

"O-oh my god!" Kurt shudders, weakly pulling agains the other man's grip. Blaine only shoves closer, so that their bodies are completely flush, trapping their hands between them. "Y-yes that's h-hard too. V-very hard indeed."

"Yeah? And nice? It it...nice as well Kurt?" Blaine breathes moistly right into Kurt's ear. And why must his body always betray him? Kurt's hips twitched forward into the warmth of Blaine's body against his, cock filling out his briefs embarrassingly fast.

"I-ah! W-what about Rachel?" He gasps as wet lips meet his jaw, nipping at the skin playfully. Fuck but Blaine's body was nice, was magnificent rubbing up over their twined fingers, humping roughly against him. And it had been so long, so very long since he'd had more than his own fist in the shower. Between striving to convince Isabelle to find him a paying position, putting together his final project, and preparing for last night's soirée...fuck. The soirée that was held to announce the engagement of one of his idols to this man who's thigh he is currently riding...

"Rachel is out with her co-stars, dancing the night away." Blaine growls and scrapes his teeth down the tendon in the side of Kurt's throat. There are fingers under the back of Kurt's coat, pulling his shirt out of his pants.

"B-but you're getting married! I-I don't understand-"

The hand keeping Kurt's arm trapped is suddenly gone, same with the mouth at his neck, and Blaine wiggles his fingers in the air. Kurt blinks at the appendage, more specifically, at the second finger from the left, conspicuously lacking the thick, diamond-studded band that had been one half of last night's main attraction. "There's nothing to understand gorgeous." The man murmurs, sliding his hands down Kurt's arms, grabbing him firmly and spinning him to face the wall. "I'm going to fuck you."

"O-oh. Nhg." The fingers return, flipping up the back of his jacket, curling over the waistband of his jeans and underwear and yanking them bodily down to his knees. "Ah! He moans as those fingers slide confidently between the cheeks of his ass, pressing against his anus and rubbing deliciously. Suddenly all moral objections seem pathetic and superfluous.

This kitchen is the kind of thing that Kurt loves about the mega-rich of New York City. The sleek, gleaming lines of stainless steal make his mouth water with all the possible dishes he could create, the perfect blend between utility and beauty. Functionality meets fashion. It's the kind of balance that Kurt wishes that the rest of the world would follow. The birdcage, the fountain, the pillars, all pretty but useless shows of wealth. But the custom-made, one of a kind food processor that is sent clattering to the imported hardwood when Kurt grapples for purchase while Blaine plows into him, actually has a practical, delectable purpose.

It's a reminder that these privileged few, the sliver of the population's pie-chart, are people too. No matter how hard they try to forget it, to hide their humanity from the lesser citizens behind masks of opulence and indifference, they are still anchored to the real world by things like hunger. They still stock their fridges with gross beer, still cheat on their partners with random strangers, still give in and let their passions drive them to fuck an unsuspecting caterer into oblivion.

"God Kurt." Blaine grunts into the nape of Kurt's neck, "So tight, so perfect." And drives deeper yet, fingers like vices on his hips.

"Fuck." Kurt whimpers, stroking himself off furiously with one hand. Jeez they don't joke about the stamina. They'd been going at it for twenty minutes now; Kurt knows because he's been glancing up at the clock, paranoid about Rachel, Blaine's fucking fiancée coming home and seeing this.

"Stop looking." Blaine rumbles so that Kurt can feel it down his entire body. "Nobody's coming. We have all the time in the world." He bats Kurt's hand off his dick and takes over, squeezing almost to the point of pain, and slows down the pace of his thrusts. Kurt sobs in frustration and chases Blaine's hand, seeking the rhythm that will bring him to the release that's so close he can _taste_ it.

"Please." He gasps, reaching behind him to grasp for Blaine's forearm, digging his nails into the flexing muscles. "Oh please harder. I need to- I need-"

"I'll give you what you need." The other man pants raggedly, plastering a lightly-stubbled cheek against his shoulder. "I'll take care of you baby, I'll make you feel so good. Just hold on...for just...a little...longer..."

Kurt doesn't think he has a little longer left in him, but Blaine proves him wrong, and they rock together for another ten minutes before Blaine gives up on restraint and fucks them both to orgasm.

"You know what?" Blaine says as Kurt is straightening his clothes. Freaking hell they hadn't even removed his coat, just pushed their pants to their ankles and went at it like animals. "You really should hire a dishwasher."

"I thought we already went through this." Kurt grumbles, attempting to get his hair back into some semblance of order, grateful that he'd gotten into the habit of carrying a travel-sized can of hairspray in case of emergencies. Granted, he hadn't had this sort of situation in mind. "Starving student-slash-intern here, I can barely afford to pay Mike and Sam and they work for half-salary because I have crazy dirt on both of them from all those 'guys nights' I dd-d."

"Well I have a feeling that your...luck is about to change." Blaine says casually, and stoops to pluck Kurt's check up from where it had fluttered to the floor at some point. "Because I've had time to rethink the size of your tip." He grabs a pen out of a drawer and makes a quick mark on the slip. "There, all fixed."

Kurt takes the check and very nearly sinks to the floor in shock. There's now an additional zero tacked onto the end of his payment. "I-I can't possibly accept this!" He squeaks, "It's way too much!"

Blaine shrugs, "What can I say? It was an awesome party."

"Is this because of the...the sex?" Kurt's ears burn just from saying it. But outrage pushes him to raise his chin and meet the other's eyes despite his mortification. "Is this...payment? To keep quiet?"

"No, come on Kurt. I told you, I was impressed by your services." At Kurt's incredulous scowl he rolls his eyes. "I was impressed by your _party-planning_ services. You made Rachel's party everything she dreamed it could be and I'm grateful. If you can't accept it as a tip then consider it an advance for my wedding."

"For your-for your wedding!" Kurt clutches at the too-long strap of his bag, slung across his body. "You don't mean-"

"Well somebody has got to do it, why not you?" Blaine stretches, elbows hooked behind his disheveled head. "I know you'll do a great job. And if it gives you incentive for...discretion regarding today's events, then all the better." And the man has the nerve to wink playfully, and goddamn Kurt for the fluttering the look spurs in his gut.

He wants to decline, to turn up his nose, spin on his heel and storm out of the penthouse. But contrary to the foolish decisions he's already made today, he's not an idiot. Of his three passions; singing, fashion and event coordination, the latter was the one he'd had he least intention of pursuing. But he thinks of his father's wedding and the pure, unhindered joy that he'd felt when all of his hard work had come together. He thinks of Tina and Mike's wedding, of the countless birthday bashes he's overseen for his friends. If he did this wedding, he'd get no small amount of exposure; there'd be hundreds of celebrities there, always looking for new ways to throw their money about.

"Alright." Kurt says, "I'll do it. I'm in classes for another two weeks, but after that I can start planning whenever you need."

"Brilliant." Blaine beams, placing a hand in the small of Kurt's back he trots them both up through the main room and into the foyer. "Rach wants a fall ceremony anyway, something about the colour of the leave doing wonders for her complexion. We'll pay you far more than that there of course, after the wedding."

Kurt nods mutely, mind already going to all the things he can now afford. An assistant to help with the cooking, a few full-time waiters, maybe buy actual uniforms for them. He'll be able to shop at all the high-end delis and vegan shops that he'd always avoided before. New pots and pans, new mixers and steamers, maybe even a van to transport it all. And after the full payment he'll have more than enough to do all the work on his apartment that it needs, hell, once the gigs start flowing in he'll be able to buy a whole new place, a something with actual walls so that he doesn't have to listen to Santana's sexual escapades every night.

Blaine punches the call button and they wait for the elevator in silence. When the metal grates slide open Blaine turns with a grin. "Well Mr Hummel, I am certainly looking forward to working with you again." And offers his hand.

Kurt shakes it and fixes a polite smile in place, with all the practiced skills that four years of acting classes has graced him with. "And you Mr Anderson." He replies cooly, striding into the lift with as much dignity as he could muster with his thighs and ass already aching. "You have my information, I'll wait for your call."

"Yes." The other man murmurs, "Yes you do that. I'll be in touch." And then Kurt is being whisked downward and away, back to the real world where things make sense.


	2. Chapter 2

This chapter contains a lot of Blaine and Rachel being couply and not much Klaine, so sorry if that's disappointing, but it's all just leading up to more of our boys.

* * *

It started at Dalton. You take a hundred prepubescent boys, isolate them in the countryside half an hour from the nearest town-centre, give them all sorts of curfews, limit their off-campus privileges, and closely monitor their Internet access, all for their most vulnerable years of self-discovery, and less-than-kosher things are bound to go down. In fact, you'd be hard pressed to find a Dalton alumnus who hadn't, at least once in his life, whacked willies with one of his fellows during a late-night study session.

Even Wes, poised, prim, happily married with a baby on the way Wesley had his share of scandalous stories from the Dalton Days. David was fond of embarrassing his friend by regaling the rest of them during their bi-annual Warbler reunions.

So maybe Blaine had taken it further than a little curious petting in middle-school. While most boys stopped their inner-class explorations when they became upperclassmen in ninth year and their curfews were bumped back and started having regular joint activities with Crawford Country Day. But Blaine still found that the occasional foray behind the maintenance shed between classes with the dashing exchange student helped keep him sharp, focused. He was happy to cruise through school just having fun, in whatever form it may come in.

But then Blaine, on a spontaneous whim, tried out for the football team and discovered an unexpected athleticism that gained him the title of youngest captain in the team's history. And then, just a week later, David overheard him singing while cleaning blackboards for his math teacher and dragged him straight to the choir room.

Suddenly he was at the forefront of the schools two most popular extracurricular groups, and with both positions came immense pressure to get a girlfriend. And high school law dictated that he had two options. Number one, captain of Crawley Country's cheer squad, Ariella Mason. She was a triple threat, blonde, blue-eyed, and intolerably bitchy. So he took door two, Rachel Berry, lead vocalist of the girls show-choir, The GrazioSistas.

People said that they were a match made in heaven. The Dalton-Crawley dream-team, power couple extraordinaire. Under their leadership their teams wiped the board at their respective sectionals, regionals, and then took first and second at nationals two years in a row. Along with the football team's record breaking season with Blaine at the helm, Blaine and Rachel rode a wave of success through to graduation.

She isn't his soulmate. They don't 'fit' together; nothing is effortless between them. They clash and they bicker, probably because they are too alike in a lot of ways. It's always do more, be better, you aren't good enough yet. For another couple it might be too much, unfulfilling, but for Blaine and Rachel it's exactly right. They both know that if it weren't for the other they wouldn't be where they are, that their lives would be totally different, and far less glamorous.

One late March evening she comes home smelling of another man's cologne.

This is only unusual in that Blaine doesn't recognize this particular scent. He knows the tuberose aroma that clings to her after a night 'rehearsing' with the male counterpart from her current play, can recognize the heavy tang of her favourite masseur's citrus regular fragrance, and is more than familiar with Brody's generic leather-wood axe body spray. This night, she smells pleasantly of jasmine, subtle and understated, but not easily matched to one of her usual forays.

"Hey babe." He greets as she struts into the room, shedding her jacket, beret, and mittens across the mahogany floor. "How was your day?"

Stripping off her knee-high leather heels, Rachel closes the distance between them and face-plants right into his afghan-covered lap. Blaine has to yank the magazine he's been perusing quickly out of the way to save it from being crushed. He places it carefully on the arm of the sofa before shifting so that she can cuddle up against his side. "Exhausting." She declares, tugging at the blanket until it covers both of them, and tucking her legging-clad feet under Blaine's knees. "But profitable!"

Blaine takes that as his queue to flick on MTV, press mute, and wait. Rachel likes her dramatic buildups, and sure enough, one commercial break later and she spills. "So as you know, I've been looking for a temporary coach to replace Brody while he's on his Euro-tour. Well, my team has narrowed the list down to a few but I've told them that I get to go through the top three myself. So today I met with one of them."

Yes he was aware of the epic hunt for the perfect substitute dance-coach, it's only been three months of despair and stress since Brody announced that he was taking a year off to spread his talents internationally. For the most part Blaine's stepped back and let Rachel and her crew handle things. "Are you sure that's safe hon? I hope you took Rudy with you."

"Oh Blaine pookie, don't be silly. I don't need a bodyguard to go out for brunch. Besides, Brittany can't weigh much more than a hundred pounds, and she's sweet as a kitten. I talked to her on the phone before meeting her in person." Rachel twirled her hair flippantly around a manicured finger.

Blaine sighed, but wasn't really in the mood to revisit the ongoing argument over Rachel's disregard for her own safety. "So, is she the one?" He asked instead. Frankly he's a little shocked that his girlfriend is leaning toward a candidate who's not more...masculine with killer abs.

"Oh, maybe. I've still got to meet with the other two but she's a solid possibility. But that's not what I was talking about."

"Ah." Blaine says, by now very used to Rachel's erratic thought processes.

"No, I was in fact referring to a happy little meeting that occurred when we popped into Brittany's friends' apartment to retrieve her lucky scrunchy." At Blaine's furrow brow she explained, "Apparently she won't negotiate business without it. But I digress. She's staying with these people until she finds her own place. So we swung by this apartment - and you should have seen it Blainey, I felt like I was in RENT, it was so...whimsical - and one of her friends is a _major_ fan. Like, speechless-tearful-swooning fan. And I thought it would be nice to give him a bit of my time, so we got talking. And you'll never guess where he went to high school."

"Um...Rydell High?" Blaine throws out there, just to make Rachel laugh, and it works. Her eyes crinkle and she smiles indulgently up at him.

"You're adorable. No, William McKinley!" She bounces excitedly beside him, and claps her hands. "Isn't that such an amazing coincidence?"

Blaine rakes his mind but comes up with nothing. The blankness must have shown on his face because Rachel pats his cheek and coos "Oh sweetie close your mouth that's not a good look for you. I guess it makes sense that you don't remember them, they were pretty forgettable. I don't think they ever made it past sectionals. They had talent, but lacked a certain...something. Star-power. They were unstructured and in-cohesive; we easily beat them in our 2011 run."

That explains it. Blaine tried to attend as many of Rachel's competitions as possible, and vise-versa, but between all of their combined activities they'd rarely been able to. But Rachel remembers every opponent that she goes up against, be it for a starring role in the latest Broadway production or back in their glee days. "Ah, a fellow Ohio survivor. Good for him."

"Yes, in fact all three of them are from Lima. Who knows how many times we may have brushed elbows with them over the years. So we ended up staying in instead of going to the restaurant, and Kurt - that's his name - cooked us the most amazing eggless pancakes from scratch. It was better than anything I've found in the city yet."

"Even better than Salle de Fleur? That's really something."

"I know right that's what I thought. So I hired him."

"Hired him...like a private chef? Rach we've been over this, this place isn't big enough to need a staff."

"And I still disagree but no, not as a chef." She rolls on top of him and nestles her head against his shoulder. "Apparently he's a genius with planning last minute events. He doesn't have an official business exactly, but he's done parties for his friends for years and a few friends-of-friends. Food, decor, entertainment, he does everything. So. I've hired him to help us throw a party next month. It'll be the perfect time to announce our engagement."

Blaine hasn't actually proposed yet. They haven't even really properly talked about it. It's sort of just something that was always going to happen in a matter of time. Like when they moved in together after graduating, there was never really another option. Neither of them had applied to any backup schools, Rachel had had her sights on Nyada since grade-school, and Blaine completed two years on a spots scholarship before getting drafted by the Jets'.

They were always going to get married, and now that Blaine has signed a five-year contract and Rachel is getting offers left and right, the time is right. They'll wait to start a family, when Rachel can afford to take a year off and not be forgotten by the world. But marriage will solidify the relationship that is the foundation of their lives, it will only make them stronger. Their parents will be ecstatic, their friends thrilled, their fans delighted.

Blaine smiles and kisses the top of your head. "Whatever will make you happy my love."

Blaine forgets about the conversation until he comes home from practice a month later to an apartment transformed. He loves their home, as he should after spending hundreds of thousands of dollars tweaking every feature to fit their carefully crafted style. But this day he walks through the rooms of his home and thinks that it has never looked more beautiful.

"Isn't it stupendous!" Rachel bounces into the room, strands of hair coming loose from the messy-bun piled high on her head. She's dressed fifties-housewife-chic in a pale coral dress and a cream neckerchief. "You just missed Kurt; he's been here for hours turning my dreams," She spins, arms thrown wide, skirt billowing Monroe-style, "into reality."

"Rachel it looks wonderful." Blaine praises earnestly, sliding close to kiss her proffered cheek. She pushes at his shoulder with a giggle when he goes in for more, swatting at him playfully.

"Don't you dare Blaine Anderson, I'm all gross and disheveled from lifting and hanging all of this, you simply must keep your hands off until after I've had my bath."

"You're perfect." Blaine protests automatically, pretty darn certain that she hadn't actually done any of the manual work. But shouting orders had to get tiring in its own right so he lets her slip away to the ensuite. He meanders through the room as the sound of running water fills the air, eying the work appreciatively.

The built in bar is fully stocked for the first time since they moved in. Usually it only gets used when the guys and their wives come over - Rachel's friends prefer to go out for cocktails. There are fresh plants whose names Blaine doesn't know placed around the room, and strings of soft white lights string high in the rafters. His plaques and photos have been moved to a different shelf, along with Rachel's trophies, still visible but more subtly so. The newly clear buffet draped in white cloth dotted with bowels of floating candles. Rachel would have fought that decision, and his respect for this Kurt fellow rises.

"So when's the party start?" He calls, strolling into the bedroom.

"Tomorrow at seven." Rachel's voice drifts through the open bathroom door, echoing slightly off the tile. "Kurt sent out the invitations last week and almost everyone has RSVPd. The guests will be greeted with various finger-foods and enjoy the open bar for an hour, when dinner will be served at eight sharp; the menu's on the fridge. Then we make the announcement over an array of gluten-free, vegan friendly mini-desserts, break out the champagne, yay cheer celebrate huzzah, show off the ring-"

The rings which had been designed and ordered by a professional the first year they were in the city. They'd been sitting in a drawer of Rachel's makeup table since, just waiting for this moment. "That sounds great Rach, but I had a meeting with the board-"

"Which I've taken the liberty to reschedule. You know the old boys love me."

More like they weren't naive enough to think that they could out-stubborn her. Blaine strips off his jeans and falls across the bed, wriggling over the king-sized mattress until only the tips of his toes hang off the edge. A muffled squelch and the rush of draining water comes from the bathroom, so he flips onto his back and strikes a pose across the pillows in time for Rachel to wander in. She looks adorable bundled up in her puffy pink robe, the gold R.B. shining from the shoulder, her cheeks flushed and hair wrapped securely in a towel. Blaine's limbs buzz with adrenalin left over from practice, and he's been half hard since leaving the stadium. When she glances over he wags his brows invitingly.

"Oh babe not tonight." She says apologetically and disappears into her closet. "It's been a positively exhausting day and I need to rest up for tomorrow." She emerges again a minute later in a long white nightgown, then sits at her night-table and starts the long process of winding curlers into her damp hair. "But if you want I can pose for you while you take care of it."

"That's okay." He sighs, and reaches for the cotton pajama pants draped over the chair by the bed. "Do you want some tea?" He asks while pulling them on and stands, pressing a brief kiss to her ear.

"Ooo please." She says happily, methodically sorting clumps of hair from the rest and rolling them. "Chamomile with honey."

"As you wish." He leaves her to her beauty regime, heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He leans against the counter while he waits, breathing deep, practiced breaths to calm himself down. It's always like this; something about the intense workout, the jovial camaraderie in the gym during warm-down, or the cleansing effect of the showers never fails to light him up. Some days Rachel is there to help him release that energy, but most nights she's tired from rehearsal, or like tonight resting up for something. Often she's not even home, leaving him trapped alone with his erratic thoughts. On more than one occasion he'd gone out to wear himself out in a bar or club, reckless and hyper to end up receiving a rushed blow-job or messy fuck in a dark back room.

Tonight he settled for pulling himself together while the bags steeped. Tomorrow they will make it official - tomorrow they are taking the next step toward the perfect life they'd been aiming for since junior year. He can no longer afford such selfish indulgences, he has to buck up and bring his weary fiancée tea in bed.

The sentiment lasts up until fifteen minutes into the party, when Blaine spots Rachel with her arm looped through Brody's. The handsome dancer stoops to whisper something in her ear and she laughs, smiling at him from beneath flirtatious lashes. When the man comes to greet Blaine with a companionable handshake-shoulder-clap, the smell of his cologne mixed with the Chanel No. 5 that Blaine bought for Rachel's birthday makes his stomach roll.

It makes him antsy. He can't focus on the conversation, can barely taste the allegedly delectable appetizers. Rachel flits through the room, chatting with their friends and coworkers and looking radiant in her pale gold evening gown. She looks at him every few minutes, a fond smile on her face, but he watches and sees her point the same expression at Brody just as often.

"Heya good lookin' you look like you need this." A voice purrs from his shoulder and he tears his eyes away from Brody's bleached-white smile. There's a gleaming silver flask inches from his face and his eyes trace up the slender, bronze-skinned arm that holds it up to see the pretty Latino woman who had a few minutes ago been singing a sultry saloon song on Rachel's low Oscar stage. "It's just cheap whiskey." She adds, tapping her blood-red nails against the cap, "But it's stronger than this crap that they're serving, so it's good enough for me."

"Er..." Blaine raises a hand between them, about to push the flask away, but catches a glimpse of the swirling hem of Rachel's dress as she disappears onto the balcony. Sure enough, he locates Brody making his way to the door as well, and the sick feeling that's been consuming him all night solidified into anger and his fingers close around cool metal instead. "Thanks."

"Yeah well it's yours anyway." The woman says flippantly, dark eyes watching him carefully, assessing. "Swiped it from the kitchen before Kurt kicked me out. It was in that big-ass red bottle with the black ribbon..."

"...My '64 vintage, of course it is." Blaine sighs, taking a mouthful. "It was a gift from my father. I was saving it for when Rachel won her first Tony."

The singer's neatly shaped brows shoot up and her lips purse. "Oops?"

"It doesn't matter." Blaine says, savoring the warm burn as the alcohol makes its way into his system. "You're right, this was doing nothing for me." He tosses his mostly-full flute of champagne into the orchids on the grand piano.

"Dayum son." She says, her voice losing its edge and becoming something almost appreciative. "I mean, I know that it's weak but I'd bet my Gucci knockoffs that its also hella expensive." She scuffs one admittedly sexy black stiletto against the floor.

"Amidst all of this it's not even close to the tip of the iceberg." Blaine waves vaguely at the room with all of its spectacular trappings, the smartly-dressed waiters circling with trays piled with food made from the finest ingredients money can buy. "I'm just looking for the strength to make it through this party."

"I can drink to that." She tips the flask and takes a generous draw. They pass it back and forth once more in silence before she huffs and tucks it down the front of her black cocktail dress. "Oh goodie here come the fun police."

"Santana Lopez what the hell do you think you're doing?" The man who suddenly appears doesn't match the high, lilting voice that snaps the words. He is tall and though slim, sturdy enough in the shoulders to easily push his way through the guests to reach them. He's a startling vision in a sea of classic black and grey wearing a stark ivory shirt under an equally blinding white vest tucked into deep purple pants. "What- are you _drinking?_ Is that your _iPod_ playing?"

"Oy get out of my face Hitler I'm just taking a break." Santana sneers, putting her hands on her hips and squaring her stance to meet this newcomer who could only be the famous Kurt.

"Break...! You haven't even been on for an hour! I've seen you sing for three and a half _straight_ in that contest at Floats and Notes!" The man snarls, keeping his voice quiet enough to not be heard over the noise of the guests but still managing to sound just as fierce as the Latina. "Get back up there right now or else I'm not paying you!"

"Like hell you're not paying me Hummel, I'll shave your hair off while you sleep you fucking know I will."

The young man runs one hand protectively through his good two-inches of tawny hair. "How about you just get back to the stage and do your job and I won't kick you out on the street? Because if you screw this up for me so help me-"

"God, keep your panties on." The woman grumbles and spins on her heel, hair narrowly missing hitting her companion across the face. She pauses a few steps away and glances over her shoulder, "Pleasure talking to you Mr Anderson, if you ever want to see what a real party is like, just call Auntie 'Tana and I'll show you how we common folk have a good time."

Blaine wiggles his finders at her awkwardly, but keeps his eyes on the triangle of Kurt Hummel's back, as it tenses visibly. The man jerks to face Blaine, cheeks nearly as colourless as his shirt. His eyes are wide and vivid blue and slightly panicked above his elvish features. "I-I do apologize!" He gasps, "I didn't realize I was interrupting!"

"No, no trouble." Blaine says hurriedly, rushing to chase away the horror in this young man's expression. "You're running a production, I am well familiar with the 'show must go on' attitude."

"Yes, yes!" Kurt nods so hard that it looks like it hurts, hands clasping anxiously over his chest. There are streaks of what looked like flour along his pale, lightly-muscled forearms and a small reddish stain on one rolled up sleeve. "In fact I've got a bowl of spicy pumpkin stew getting cold and a hundred petit lemon-rosemary cheesecakes getting warm. Again I'm so sorry you had to see that..."

"By all means." Blaine waves him away, watching with amusement as the man scurries off, the tips of his ears bright pink. He floats through the shifting sea of stars and isn't the tallest, or the most beautiful, or best dressed, but somehow Blaine can't take his eyes off him.

When the slender asian waiter glides by with another tray of champagne, Blaine grabs two.


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter tries to focus on Blaine and Kurt's mindsets relating to their sexualities and their relationship, and some opinions are voiced by various characters that DO NOT REFLECT MY OWN.

Enjoy :)

* * *

The bed is disgusting. Well, the entire room was disgusting, but the bed is certainly the worst of it all. The rumpled sheets smell like damp wood and are closer to yellow than to any shade of white. He doesn't even want to think about the pillow cases; he's the type of person who always brings his own, even if its just one night in a friend's dorm.

It's not even that bad of a hotel, but it's still a place where thousands of strangers have laid their bodies before him, and that's gross no matter how many stars some nobody critic had deemed it worthy of. Kurt would not normally have willingly pressed his face this close to any of it, for any reason. As it is he pushes his hands flat against the mattress and attempts to put a little distance between his nose and the mottled puce quilt. But a sharp snap of Blaine's hips behind him a moment later just sends him forward again.

"Can you- ah! Let me-" Kurt gasps, inhaling a dusty mouthful of air just as a perfectly aimed thrust drags inside him in _just_ the right way. "Nrrgh!"

"Yeah?" Blaine grunts, hand sliding up Kurt's sweaty thigh to hike his ass higher, "You like that? Right there?" He ruts hard against the same spot again and again.

"S-shit!" Kurt yelps, feeling lightheaded, and officially gives up attempting to avoid burying face into the pillow. "Yes!" He moans, muffled into the yellowish fabric, "There Blaine! Th-aah!"

And boy does the man oblige. Blaine goes at it like no lover Kurt has ever been with, enthusiastic and with incredible accuracy. As a rule Kurt values control in every aspect of life, believes that even during sex one should be able to keep a grip on himself. But he is finding it increasingly difficult not to spiral out of his carefully constructed composure and just losing it to the stunning push-and-pull between him and the man behind him. He can feel his hair falling loose, probably parting unsightly down the centre, there's sweat running down his temple and his face is as likely as not the colour of a tomato.

But fuck is it good. He shifts his knees farther apart and tilts his pelvis so that Blaine slides as deep into his body as possible, heedless to the fact that he definitely looks ridiculous with his ass sticking up like this. "Gnng!" He moans blissfully and struggles until he can slip his hand down past his stomach to fist his bobbing erection. "So close."

Blaine chokes, his arms on either side of Kurt's torso shaking with exertion and he shouts hoarsely as he comes. Kurt twists his hand, swipes his thumb and follows suit, collapsing fully onto the bed. "Touchdown." He giggles, a tad hysterically at the dismal quality of the joke; the dry, mature wit he prides himself for seems to have fled the moment Blaine had thrown him onto the bed.

"The boy does know how to score." Blaine breathes, lifting his hands off the mattress and gripping Kurt's ass. Kurt bites his lip and stifles a gasp at the twinge as he pulls out too quickly. "Ah that hit the spot."

Gripping the nearest corner of the bed-sheet, Kurt rolls onto his back with the fabric wrapped around his hips. Blaine is leaning back on his haunches, breathing heavy. Kurt lazily lets his gaze linger on the delicious way the position spreads the man out, all heaving chest and stomach muscles, softening cock leaned against one tight thigh. Unaffected by Kurt's eyes on him, he reaches to strip the damp condom off, tossing it into the bedside wastebasket. "You mind if I use the shower first?" He asks, voice slightly hoarse.

"Go for it." Kurt exhaled, arching up in the bed to pop his back satisfyingly. Blaine was paying for the room after all. The man blinked, shook his head and hopped up, striding to the doorway, the tan skin of his ass bare and pert.

Once the man is out of sight, the closed door muffling the sounds of the shower curtain pulling back and taps twisting on, the mood of the room drops. Kurt tries to cling to the warm post-orgasm tingles but they seep away, rapidly replaced by chilled air against his damp skin. Shivering, he pulls the rucked blankets up to his chin, curling away from the empty half of the bed to look at the strip of light beneath the bathroom door.

"I know that walk."

Kurt keeps his eyes determinedly on the fluorescent-lit interior of the fridge as he retrieves the carton of organic eggs from the dairy shelf, piling a bag of spinach, block of asiago, and a bundle of shallots on top. When he turns to deposit the armful onto the cutting board, Santana sidles up beside him, leaning with her hip cocked. "That's your morning after walk Hummel."

Kurt shoots her a look and elbows her aside to reach his medium-sized mixing bowl. "I haven't the faintest clue what you are talking about." He says primly, tapping one of the eggs firmly on the rim, cracking it open, carefully keeping the yolk in one half.

"Oh don't bullshit a bullshitter." Santana sneers as Kurt meticulously separates the whites out of three eggs. "Hey, add a couple more, I haven't eaten yet."

Kurt rolls his eyes but complies, pulling the shallots over and chopping with a practiced hand. "So you're saying that you've just been lurking in the kitchen, waiting to ambush me with accusations of...what exactly are you accusing me of again?"

"Of being a dirty whore." She slides the grater out of the appliance drawer and begins to drag the cheese across it. "You got some sweet nookie last night and don't even try to deny it."

Kurt scoops up the shreds of asiago and dumps the lot into the bowl along with the shallots and starts ripping in the spinach. "Even if what you are saying happened to be true - not saying that it is mind you - and I did engage in sexual...activities last night, I fail to see how this would be any business of yours Santana."

"Lots of pepper..." The Latina hums, watching Kurt sprinkle salt, plenty of pepper, and a dash of nutmeg to the batter. "And don't fucking pull the princess act I can tell by now when you've have a dick up your ass." She smacks Kurt sharply in the butt, sending a shock of pain through his abused nether-regions.

"Fuck you." He hisses, shuffling out of range to pour the mixture into the frying pan. The woman lets him retreat, snickering at his obvious limp.

"Jesus that must've been one helluva cock." She smirks, "I haven't seen you this stiff since you screwed that body-builder what's-his-face. Patty."

"Payton. And he was a personal trainer."

"Whatevs. I'm just sayin', Pat was seriously stacked, so if this dude last night wrecked you just as bad as he did..."

"Oh I wouldn't say it was bad." Kurt can't help but grin, flashing back to how insanely good it had felt to be stretched and filled and thoroughly fucked until his mind was blissfully blank. He drags his mind back to the present before he gets lost in the heady memories in time to flip the omelette. "On the contrary..." He shift his stance and savors the burn in his muscles.

"Knew it." Santana nods in satisfaction. "I'll put another notch in the bedpost shall I darlin'? Dang thing is set to topple any day now."  
He feels the skin on his neck prickle uncomfortably, turns a pointed gaze at his roommate. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Oh, you know, just trying to keep up with the sexploits of the infamous Kurt Hummel. Remind me, exactly how many fags does one have to spread for in order to be New York City's sparkly gay bicycle?"

"Oh screw you Santana Lopez." Kurt snaps furiously, heat creeping up behind his ears. "You're one to talk Ms 'Matrimony is for idiots'."  
"Put away the claws and don't burn my breakfast. You know full well that there's a difference between how I run my show and how you run yours." She crosses her arms beneath her breasts and stares him square in the eye. "I have commitment issues. We've been there, done that conversation. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm untameable; hell I've embraced it! I sleep with more than one person at the same time, but you know what? It's an arrangement. I know these chicks; I know that they're just as loose as I am. There are no expectations of love or loyalty, just a good fuck. You Hummel are a slut plain and simple. You meet random douche-bags at bars or the gym, wherever, and drag them home to have raunchy, meaningless sex. I see it happen, every time you just dive I with your heart open and come crashing down hard. This isn't good for you, isn't what you need and it will kill you.

"_Fuck off_" Kurt hisses. He feels dizzy and sick, the aches in his legs suddenly morphing into jelly. One of his hands is clutching the spatulas so hard the plastic handle protests audibly, the other one is fisted white-knuckled at his side. "Who I sleep with is _none _of your concern."

"Oh, it seems like it is." Santana bites back, dark gaze unwavering, "because I seem to be the only freaking person who can see what you're doing to yourself, and as much as it pains me to admit, you're actually probably my best friend." Her voice softens a fraction, and she relaxes into a less confrontational stance. "This isn't who you are." She says, "You're denying yourself what you actually want-"

"Don't." Kurt spits, throwing the steaming omelette onto a plate too hard; the skin splits. "Don't fucking preach to me about denying myself, not when-"

"Don't you dare-"

Kurt sneers and pushes through her protests, "Not when you're still in love with Brittany. How many years has it been again? Remind me again the name of that nice boy she's dating?"

"Shut up you little-"

"It's quite serious according to what I've heard. He's moving out here to be with her right? All the way from California too. Sounds like he's headed for the M word. When was the last time you actually talked to her about how you feel? Does she know that you've never gotten over her?"

"You know what fuck you Kurt!" Santana shouts, shoving forward and grabbing the front of his army-green sweater. "You're a bitch, and normally I can respect that, but bringing Brit into this, that is low."

A rush of guilt floods Kurt because this is, or rather, had been, the line. Santana and his relationship was a twisted one that no one, not even them really, fully understand. They'd formed a shaky bond in senior year when Santana had had her whole 'hey maybe I'm a lesbian' epiphany; the gay community in Lima had been so scant that they'd had no choice but to lean on each other a bit. But with two equally stubborn personalities living in the same apartment since graduating, they'd established some unspoken taboo subjects, Santana's unresolved feelings for her best friend being first and foremost.

"I didn't mean to...look Santana," he pinches the bridge of his nose and drags in a deep, calming breath. "You stay out of my love-life, and I'll stay out of yours, okay?"

The woman lets go of his shirt and backs away, shaking her head slowly. "Love-life? What you have isn't a _love-life_ Hummel, because what you do isn't love _or_ living." She strides over to the coat-rack and shrugs on her bomber jacket. "At least I can honestly say that I know what loving someone feels like, so come back to me when you can fucking say the same."

She exits the apartment in a gust of crisp early-spring air, slamming the door behind her.

Chandler Kiehl was the only real boyfriend Kurt has ever had. They met in senior year and dated through graduation, and two months into collage.

He'd been perfect in every way. He sang, he dressed nicely, liked all of the same musicals that Kurt did, admired the same idols. They'd had similar dreams - studying music in New York, but not so similar as to come off as competition; Chandler had been aiming for NYU so there hadn't been any pressure over auditions. Chandler was sweet and attentive, sending silly texts from his classes at the school the next district over, singing romantic songs in the car on their way to dinner. They'd held hands when they felt safe, kissed tentatively in the privacy of their homes, and eventually fumbled through the awkwardness of their mutual first time. Chandler understood what it was to grow up gay in small-town Ohio, Chandler was cute, nice, and said that he loved Kurt. Because it was the only logical thing to do, Kurt had said that he felt the same way.

Kurt hadn't. Chandler was everything that Kurt logically _knew_ was perfect for him, but Kurt couldn't fall in love with him. He tried, he told himself that he just needed to give it time, waiting for months for it to happen. But nothing changed. He liked Chandler, enjoyed their time together and the sex was good, although at the time he'd had nothing to compare it to. He waited for it to become more than just strong fondness, expecting to wake up one morning to find that magical feeling that all of his movies and books and musicals told him would make everything worth it.

He finally broke it off, probably months later than he should have. Poor Chandler had been so confused. He hadn't seen it coming because from his point of view, everything had been perfect. _Because it had been_. Apparently even perfect wasn't good enough for Kurt.

_What's wrong with me_? He'd asked himself as he'd packed his half of the things in the tiny apartment they had only shared for a few months. _I tried so hard. What am I doing wrong?_ It was a question that he revisited time and time again over the years. After he blew it with the nice boy Adam who'd been so interested in him, had given him so many chances, but Kurt had shied away, leery at the prospect of another failed relationship with another great guy. After his first drunken hookup with a handsome law student he'd danced with for hours in an on-campus club and experienced such amazing chemistry, but then he'd slipped out in the middle of the night without leaving his full-name or number. And then every one-night stand since, a string of men who had names and jobs and personalities that Kurt never bothered getting to know because _what if none of them were good enough? _He didn't think he could handle more Chandlers, not after dreaming for so long of finding his soulmate and realizing that there was a chance that no such person existed.

"So I eventually just decided that no matter how much it hurts, I had to be ruthless and cut Bea from the list." Rachel sighs dramatically and leans against Blaine's side as they walk arm-in-arm. "I mean, there was nothing else I could've done, I can't have an uneven number of men to women, it would've looked so awkward in the photos! And I refuse to have more than ten in the party, that would be _so_ _gauche_. And I simply can't consider any of the other girls! I mean Lydia was my first friend at Nyada, Electra got me my first big part, and Pen and Harmony have been with me for so long...Beatrice was really the only option."

"But I thought that you don't even like Harmony." Blaine said, recalling just the other day when his fiancée had ranted for a solid half-hour about how the other woman had copied a hairdo that Rachel had worn that month to an award show and was now claiming that she'd created the look all on her own. "And Bea is such a sweet girl."

"Blaine it doesn't matter who I like better." Rachel said exasperatedly, " Harmony may not be my favourite friend, but she is my best friend, and it'll look weird if she's not my maid of honor."

Blaine nods as if he understands. He does, in part. He's been on the sidelines of Rachel's complicated social life for a decade, and has by now realized that the circles she runs with are complex, multi-layered things. For example, she met her supposed 'best friends' in a Nyada prep-group in elementary school. Rachel, Harmony, Canada, and Pendleton have butted heads so often since, Blaine is frankly surprised that they haven't torn each other to shreds yet. And yet Rachel's true friends, Beatrice McClaine and Lydia Galvan tend to be pushed aside in favour of the others because neither girl 'made it' in the dramatic world, Lydia currently the stay at home mother of a beautiful six-month-old and Bea a ballet teacher.

Blaine likes Bea. He thinks that she'd actually make the best bridesmaid. He can't picture Harmony being at all comforting and encouraging when Rachel freaks out, Electra is just far too all over the place to be trusted with any responsibility too important, and tiny, fastidious Pendleton would not be able to handle the utter mess that a wedding really entails. Lydia is a sweet girl, but a bit on the quiet side and is often pushed around by the other women.

"And so I was thinking that the girls should wear violet." Rachel continues passionately, gesturing wildly with her free hand. "A nice, dark lavender preferably, I think it'll work with everyone's colouring. I'm looking mostly at fabrics in seashell and ivory for myself, and then Kurt was saying that classic white roses are in right now and that he knows a flourish that can match them to my dress. How do you think your guys will feel about wearing violet?"

"Cooper will be up for it." Blaine answers with certainty. His brother has always enjoyed breaking conventions. "But Joe's pretty bread-and-butter, it'll take some convincing."

"He'll do it for you hon, he's your agent, it's what he's paid to do." Rachel waves it off and motors on as they turn onto the street that holds her favourite vegan cafe. "We need to ask your sister-in-law for the kids' measurements ASAP so that we can order their outfits. Kimmy is going to look like a little angel in the dress I've picked out and Jaxon will be the most adorable ring bearer." Her hand tightens around his arm as they walk through the propped-open door of the bistro. "I'm so excited!"

"So am I baby." Blaine responds, smiling politely, if a little forced when the hostess - obviously a new employee because she gapes and flushes when she recognizes them - ushers them to a table by the window.

"And you're still sure you're okay picking out your suit? Because if you find yourself needing my expert opinion-"  
"I know where to find it." Blaine interrupts sweetly, pulling a chair out for her and sliding the navy-blue wool coat off her arms to drape over the back. "Now enough with wedding talk, let's enjoy lunch."

It was supposed to be strictly a business meeting. Completely honestly, Blaine fully intended for the events of their meeting to be purely professional, up until Kurt walks into the private room they'd reserved wearing those _boots_.

_Or are they pants?_ Blaine puzzles, watching transfixed as Kurt hands his black military jacket to the attendant - who parts with a nod closing the door quietly behind him - revealing the ash-coloured garment, whatever it may be, that hugs each inch of his shapely legs magnificently. _They're shoe-pants_. he marvels, studying the criss-crossing laces that traverse the endless lengths of Kurt's legs, pulling the grey fabric snugly across lean muscle and perfectly placed curves.

"Hi." Kurt snaps Blaine out of his sudden lust-induced stupor with a clipped greeting. He slides into the armchair on the other side of the low table from Blaine, sitting with impeccable posture, lovely limbs crossed at the knee.

"Hello." Blaine grins, leaning forward in his own seat and plucking up the pitcher of lemon water that the hotel has provided, "Want a drink?"  
"I'm fine thank you. We should really get onto business." Kurt says coolly, digging a thick Manila folder out of his satchel and setting it down on the table. He flips it open and spreads a few leafs of paper out with. "I've compiled a list of possible locations for you to go through based on the estimated number of guests you've given me. Ideally we'd already have an exact date and time picked, but as you two are already quite well known, we shouldn't have trouble securing a last-minute venue. Now, depending on the time of day you'd prefer, different outdoor locations pose different lighting issues, which'll mostly just matter for the photographers, which reminds me, I've had several companies actually offer to cover the event provided that we give them exclusive media priority-"

So apparently actually paying attention to details is impossible for Blaine when the words are coming out of the mouth of the most devastatingly sexy man in the world. And oh what a mouth it is. Blaine stares as Kurt pulls a pen out of nowhere and jots down a note on one of the papers, and then tucks the instrument deftly behind one shell-like ear. Every movement the man makes is like a step in a graceful dance, rehearsed, beautiful, full of purpose. He blinks after a minute to find Kurt looking at him expectantly, no doubt waiting for the answer to a question Blaine didn't hear.

"I want you to suck my dick." Is what Blaine supplies after an awkward silence. Kurt's eyes just about bug out of his head.  
"Wha-! Excuse _me_ Mr Anderson, now is neither the time nor place...not that I would anyway this is a meeting to _discuss your wedding plans!_ I don't even know how to respond!"

"You could just do it." Blaine insists, wiggling back in his chair in order to spread his legs wider, letting his hands drift casually up his thighs to rest in the crease of his pants. "It wouldn't take long, your pant...shoe..._things_ will guarantee that. Then we can go back to talking about all of...this."

"All of this...! Being _your wedding!_" Kurt exclaims, eyebrows drawing up so far on his forehead that the flawless skin there wrinkles into a bunch of cute little rolls.

"Yes you said that already." Blaine hums, fiddling the metal zip of his fly between his fingers, "That doesn't change the fact that those things make your ass look fantastic. So either I can sit here and jerk it while you watch, or you can come over and speed along the process. Your choice." He grips the pull firmly and unzips his jeans, parting the cotton of his briefs to let his half-hard on poke out.

The cool air of the room sends goose-pimples along his skin, making his balls tighten pleasantly. Keeping his eyes locked with his companion's, Blaine lazily fists himself, sliding up and down his length loosely before thumbing over the head to tease the tip. Kurt watches the path of his hand with wide eyes, an attractive flush high in his cheeks. After a minute he rises and walks the short distance to the door, and Blaine's hand falters, thinking that he's taken it a step too far, but the man simply tests the handle experimentally, making sure it's locked before turning back.

Blaine groans and widens his legs further as Kurt approaches, cock twitching with anticipation of events to come. The sight of the man sinking to his knees by his feet is the most arousing thing Blaine can remember seeing, those fucking pants creasing and stretching in all the right places. "This was not how I planned to spend my Monday." The man mutters, breath ghosting over the blood-filled tip of Blaine's penis tantalizingly before his slender hand pushes Blaine's aside to wrap around the base.

"_Oh yeah_." He breathes at the superb slide of Kurt's smooth skin over his own, letting his head fall over the back of the chair, eyes fluttering closed. Kurt pumps him deliciously slowly, one hand providing rhythmic pulsations along the bottom half of his dick while the other works the end between dexterous fingers. One thumb pops out to rub firmly down the underside to press between his balls, separating them and then kneading gently. "Oh god yes."

It's by far the best hand-job he's ever experienced; Kurt barely had him in his hands for a minute and he's already worked him to full hardness. And then the hand at the end is replaced by his mouth and Blaine almost comes faster than he has since puberty. He manages to hold off, but he curses and bucks, head shooting up to take in the sigh of Kurt's rosy lips wrapped around his cock. "L-look at you." He chokes, crossing his arms behind his neck to resist the temptation to grab at the other man's hair because even bent over, mid-fellatio, the golden-brown locks are arranged in a perfect coif, and Blaine doubts that he'd appreciate it being disrupted. "Ah...so good..."

Kurt's tongue dips and weaves around his cock, swirling down to map the veins along the shaft before delving into the slit. Just when Blaine thinks that it can't get any better, the man's cheeks convulse, dragging his dick deep into the back of his throat where the flesh is even slicker, hotter, and tighter. "Gah!" Blaine gasps raggedly, digging his finger into his elbows. Kurt pulls back slightly with a wicked twist of his lips, before plunging back onto him, swallowing around the twitching member. "Oh god!" He cries and comes.

When Blaine comes down from the white-out of orgasm, Kurt has sunk back and away, and is in the process of pouring himself a glass of water. "Oh my god." Blaine marvels, dragging a hand over his sweat-damp face. Dragging his limbs into alignment took far more effort than it should have, and he fumbles his softening, rubicund dick back into his pants. "That was amazing."

"Thanks." Kurt mutters, followed by a long chug of water. He shifts uncomfortably to his feet, the tightness of his trousers not doing anything in the slightest to hide the fact that he wasn't unaffected by the blowjob.

Blaine watches the short hobble back to his seat uncomfortably. He knows it would be polite to offer reciprocation of some sort, but aside from brief mid-fuck fisting, he just doesn't _do_ that. He feels bad though, that had been an utterly mind-numbing blow. "I uh..." He starts, not even sure what he's going to offer, but thankfully Kurt interrupts.

"The media contacts!" He rushes, voice a note higher than its natural pitch. "We need to discuss media coverage of the ceremony...and security! I need to factor you're security force into the atmosphere, it's a vital detail that we _must_ go over _now_."

"Y-yes of course." Blaine swallows dryly, shaking off the lingering euphoria from his release. "What do you need to know?"

Visiting with the Warblers is a love-hate thing for Blaine. On one hand, they were his closest friends, virtually his family for more than five years of his life. Whenever one of the guys is in town, Blaine makes sure to meet up with him at least once out of obligation - once a Warbler always a Warbler after all. But depending on which member it is, it can be a trying experience. When Wes comes with his wife, it's all a great big show about how perfect their lives are. They were at the top together in school, and Wes has always refused to let any illusion of discontent taint his idyllic world. David is similar, neither of them, despite being Blaine's closest friends, are people who he can truly confide in matters like his messed-up relationship or this affair with his wedding planner.

But of all of his former schoolmates, Sebastian Smythe is the most love-hate of them all. Blaine reaches out to shake the man's proffered hand. "Sebastian. It's been a while."

"Eight months, fifteen days, roughly four hours." The man replies with a slick grin. "I've been counting."

Blaine fights back a grimace, and tugs his hand back, meeting a bit of resistance when Sebastian squeezes a little tighter than propriety demands, trying to hold on a little longer. "Yes, the reunion last August." Blaine says evenly, grabbing up his coffee and cradling the steaming mug to his chest.

"And so much has changed since then." Sebastian leans forward with his elbows on his knees, pale eyes alert and interested, "It was all over the news, _Infamous drama queen breaks the hearts of millions by stealing away the NFLs sexiest player_."

Blaine scoffs, "There is no way that is an actual headline, you made that up." His publicist has been keeping track of all media mentions of him since he was drafted, and Blaine also has alerts set up on his phone for both his and Rachel's names and habitually scans them every day. He hasn't seen an article with that particular spin on it yet.

"Well yes you're correct on both accounts. It's an actual headline...that I made up. And wrote. Check it out." He slides his iPhone across the table, screen aglow on a webpage. Wearily, Blaine scrolls down the page - a vaguely familiar, middle of the road news sight that focuses on celebrity gossip.

"_The news that the hunkie twenty-three year old is officially stepping off the market will devastate the single women and men of America-_ Sebastian!" Blaine shoots the other man an incredulous look.

"What?" Sebastian laughs, spreading his hands, "It's the truth. You should hear the boys down at the clubs drool about you. Like, damn hot-stuff, you're at the centre of the gay community's collective fantasy. They all wonder about what it would be like to fuck you and some days it's hard not to just burst out and tell them-"

"Shut the hell up!" Blaine hisses, looking around the cafe to see if they had attracted any eavesdroppers. The other patrons seemed to all be absorbed in their respective conversations, laptops, and beverages. "You better not have said anything Sebastian or so help me-"

"Cool your jets, Mr Jets." Sebastian held his palms up between them. "I didn't out you. But you know, in my opinion-"

"I know your opinion and its _wrong_." Blaine grits out, putting his drink down on the table in favour of crossing his arms securely over his chest. "I am getting married in four months to the _woman_ I love. The fantasies of your club-buddies has no sway over my life."

"Fuck that bullshit you closeted coward." Sebastian snarls, charming mask disappearing like it had never been there in the first place. "How many times have I told you that this repression thing you're doing, it's unhealthy! You are denying a part of you that is important, hell, the most important. This farce of a life you've built for yourself - with your pretty girlfriend, your macho buddies, your adoring fans, none of it is real. I'm the only one who's seen the real Blaine Anderson underneath, the man who begged for my cock, who screamed my name as I fucked you. _That_ was real."

"We don't talk about that night!" Blaine whispers vehemently, leaning across the table to jab his finger in the other man's face. "We've been through this a million times you persistent asshole. I went through a _phase_. I experimented with guys, so what? That's _normal_. I let you...do _that_ to me because I was finding my sexual identity, not because I'm gay. You're just bitter that I haven't let you do it again since."

"Ha!" Sebastian sneers, shoving Blaine's hand away roughly, "I have guys falling at my feet, pants around their ankles, just waiting for me to screw them. No, I'm bitter because all of those things that you just said are just the filthy, brainwashing lies that every homophobic asshole spouts."

"How dare you say that I am in no way homophobic!"

"It's a little concept called internalized homophobia Blainey my dove, and you are positively swimming in it." The man sneers and presses his white-knuckled fists into his eyes in a show of extreme frustration, "And it fucking _is_ homophobic. I'll bet any money that those phrases, _just a phase, it's normal to experiment_, you heard them from your parents, am I right? You are so scared of disappointing the world that you are letting down the only person who truly matters...yourself."

"You're wrong. You're wrong!" Blaine whispers, heart starting to beat loudly in his ears, "I am happy with the way I am, this life that you mock is the one that I want. And it's none of your business, Smythe, my lifestyle has no effect on you."

"Oh it doesn't?" Sebastian chuckles darkly "You're wrong again Blainey, it really really does. People like you damage everything that we are working toward. Equality can only be reached if we stick together in solidarity. How can we expect society to accept us if we can't even accept ourselves?"

"I fully support LGBT rights, I hate it that you say I don't!"

"Oh really? What charities to you give to huh? When was the last time you've been to a pride parade?" Blaine's momentary silence makes Sebastian bark out another laugh. "That's what I thought. It's easy to say you support equality but when it comes to action...you're no better than the haters."

"I-I have gay friends-"

Sebastian quirks a skeptical brow. "Are they your friends or Rachel's?"

Blaine thinks of Canada and Gavroche and bites his lip. He's never really spent much time with the two men, and it's always been in a larger group. They're nice enough guys, but they just have nothing in common. "Kurt!" He exclaims, "The man who's planning the wedding. He's cool I guess, we've hung out a few times and I like him."

"Really? Are you fucking him?" Sebastian means it as a joke, but Blaine feels his expression falter. "Oh my go you _are_. Still dipping your dick in this end of the pool are we! That makes it even better!" He stares at Blaine, intense eyes pining him in place, "Let me guess- it's not gay when you're the one doing the fucking right? Or when he sucks you, or gives you a hand-job, because that's all stuff that you can do with a girl, is that how you're justifying this to yourself?"

"I...that isn't..." But it is. Even if he hasn't thought hard enough about it to form the words, he knows that it's true. Ever since that night with Sebastian, all the way back in highschool, he hasn't ever taken that role. He remembers what it felt like - it had been pleasurable enough...in a way. He had gotten off, come with Sebastian's dick in his ass, but it hasn't been _good_. The experience had left him feeling raw and vulnerable and more than anything, deeply confused. The days after had been a roller-coster of emotions; the first weekend home with his parents had been the worst. He'd felt like everyone should be able to tell what he'd done, just by looking at him. He'd been on edge for weeks, and even after the sick feeling had faded, the though of repeating the encounter had been out of the question.

"It's just...it's just a guy helping a guy okay?" Blaine mutters, rubbing his eye socket with a knuckle. "Enjoying sex with men doesn't make me gay, it doesn't." He can't look at his companion, he feels like he'll explode if he does. "Sex feels good, no matter who you're doing it with. It's a hand on my dick, no matter who it's attached to."

"You keep telling yourself that." Sebastian says quietly, pulling his wallet out of his jeans pocket and dropping a handful of ones into his empty mug. "It won't change the fact that you're the textbook definition of a closet-case, but you keep on saying it." He stands and goes in for another handshake, which Blaine only manages to return through years of his mother's flawless etiquette drilled into him. "It's always a pleasure to talk with you Blaine, I'll be waiting on that wedding invitation. Unless, of course, you come to your senses in time. But until then-" he crooks his elbow in a sarcastic salute, spins on his heel and exits the shop.

The back of Kurt's neck is hot and humid with sweat, it smells like salt and probably tastes like it too. Blaine plasters himself against the other man's back, swiveling his hips where he's buried balls deep in his ass. He gives into the temptation and runs his tongue up the notches of his spine, finishing with a nuzzle to the short hair at the base of his skull. He sucks and nips lazily across the pale skin, feels the pulse thrumming erratically under his lips.

"There, there, there." Kurt chants mindlessly, arching back shoulders to pelvis, hand flying to grip Blaine's hair, yanking sharply so that his mouth is a few inches higher, behind Kurt's ear. "Hynnn." He keens when Blaine obligingly sucks the lobe into his mouth, teeth scraping roughly along the peach-soft skin. His body clenches spastically around Blaine's cock, and the fingers in his hair scrape across his scalp before grabbing hold and twisting.

"So." Blaine pants when he gets his voice back, slumping sideways against the pillows, lazily throwing the full condom in the approximate direction of the trash. "Biting, huh?"

Kurt is still gripping the headboard, head hanging between his arms, ribcage heaving visibly. "Y-you're one to talk." He wheezes, "Hair-pulling, huh?"

"Touché." Blaine grunts, touching the tips of his fingers to the still-tender spot at the crown of his head and pressing so that it burns dully. He's always liked people touching his hair, be it head rubs, massages, or even just getting a haircut. Now apparently getting his hair pulled makes him orgasm instantaneously.

Kurt drops back from the crouch he's been sitting in and sags tiredly into the mattress. Thin beams of orange from the sunset outside stream through the blinds, criss-crossing his pale body. "Your hair." He mumbles absently, hand hovering in the humid air between them, "it's curlier than I would've thought."

Reflexively, Blaine smooths his curls back from his forehead. But once loose from the layer of gel, the ringlets refuse to be tamed and spring back out in every direction. He shrugs and shakes his head, letting the whole lot free. "Now you know my darkest secret." He jokes, "go forth to the press and ruin me if you're truly that cruel."

"Out of all the things that I could ruin you with, _this_ is the one you choose to acknowledge. I don't get you. Anyway," Kurt tilts his head to the side enduringly, and squints at him. "I like it. If anything, I bet it'd up the level of fanaticism you're inspiring in Joe public." He grins playfully. "It's sexy."

"Oh yeah? Another kink Hummel? You like my Afro?" Blaine teases, tipping forward so that his head lands on the mattress beside Kurt's ribcage. "Feel the fuzz!" He crows, nuzzling against the other man's torso.

"Oh god stop it you weirdo!" Kurt giggles, flapping at Blaine, peppering his head and shoulders with light blows, "That tickles!"

"Hey, maybe if I keep it up you'll come again." Blaine hoots, but stops a moment later, remaining in that position with his face nestled a few inches below the man's armpit. They both stink of various bodily fluids, and Kurt is radiating heat, but it's actually kind of nice. Blaine closes his eyes and sighs heavily, letting himself relax into the bed. "You really like it?" He asks quietly. He's always fought his curls, wishing more than anything that he'd inherited his mother's beautiful pin-straight locks instead of the Anderson corkscrews.

"I mean," fingers pluck hesitantly at his hair, touch growing more confident when he unconsciously leans closer, "it's pretty messy right now, but with the right product...meaning _not_ a gallon of gel, I think it would look dashing."

"Hmm." Blaine hums contentedly as Kurt smooths and arranges his mop, "I've never tried anything else...thought it would be easiest..."  
"I'll bring you some!" Kurt exclaims, excitement in his voice, "I am generally the go-to gay for my female friends in times of fashion crisis, so I'm sure I have some mousse lying around somewhere."

"...like the dessert?" Blaine mumbles sleepily, mostly to make Kurt smile.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that." Kurt says, voice incredulous, but the torso beside him jumps and jiggles with laughter.

"Blaine baby, what do you think you are doing?"

Blaine blinks up from the cuff-link that he'd been struggling to fasten to look at his fiancée, standing in the doorway. "Um, waiting for you to finish getting ready?" He offers, fingers tugging at the stubborn clasp.

Rachel tisks between her teeth and knocks his hands aside, deftly sliding the metal clip in place. "I mean, you've forgotten a little something, hot stuff." She says, reaching up to ruffle his gel-free hair.

He winces as her fingers card through, displacing the curls he'd spent twenty minutes carefully arranging. "I thought I'd do something different." He explains, trying to salvage the style in the wall-to-wall mirror that spanned the length of the hall. But Rachel's fussing has separated the clumps of mousse, meaning that within minutes of walking out into the damp air outside the whole thing will go up in frizz.

Rachel trails after him, peering over his shoulder with a pinched look on her face. "Honey you know that I think your curls are adorable." She says, one hand drifting to rest lightly on his shoulder, "But is tonight really the night to be trying out a new look?"

They're already forty minutes late for the party to celebrate the show being renewed for another season. Rachel always says that there's a fine line between fashionably late and distastefully tardy. Apparently the hour marks the point where it becomes a faux-pas. "Here," She says, digging into her small silver purse. "I'll just-" she pulls out the travel-sized tin of pomade that she's carried since they first started dating, twists the cap and scoops out a generous dollop.

"Curls are for nights in." Rachel clucks, parting his hair behind his left ear and finger-combing the product sideways, plastering it into its usual impeccable style. "Curls are for going to the gym, and casual get-togethers with your buddies. But tonight is an _event_. We need to suit up, get into costume. There." She chucks his chin and wipes her hand on her monogrammed hankie. "Very handsome."

Blaine looks at his reflection. He looks exactly the same as he always does.

* * *

I've made some changes to previous chapters that you guys might want to know about: 1. Blaine is now only a few months younger than Kurt. I, like a lot of people, don't like that they made him a year below on the show, and I've seen some people explain away the fact that Blaine was a year behind by saying that he missed too much of a school year after getting bashed and had to repeat a year. I've always liked that, so in this world, since Blaine never went to the dance, he was never bashed and therefor graduated the same year as Kurt and Rachel. 2. Kurt now was a design student at NYU instead of Nyada. Since he wasn't friends with Rachel in this world, he didn't get that push that she provided him with in canon, and didn't re-apply.

In this chapter we see that Kurt's mentality when it comes to sex is very different than on the show. This is because without Blaine to step in and encourage Burt to have that "You matter" talk with him. Burt still loves Kurt, but stayed distant from his sex-life, preferring not to think about it. So Kurt is more loose with who he has casual sex with.


End file.
